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Wed, 06 Apr 2016 17:09:45 +0000en-UShourly1https://wordpress.org/?v=4.6.6Things are Different in the Islandshttp://www.adventuresincrazy.com/things-are-different-in-the-islands/
http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/things-are-different-in-the-islands/#respondFri, 17 Apr 2015 15:09:47 +0000http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/?p=6367Continue reading →]]>Things are different in Turks and Caicos. For one, everything is really expensive. I mean really expensive, nine dollars for a case of water, six dollars for a tiny bottle of honey, three dollars and fifty cents for one avocado. I know they have to import everything, but I still think there must have been a little price gouging going on at the Graceway IGA, though I can’t be sure. I suppose I could have stopped in the “real cheap” grocery store tucked inside the industrial park, to test my theory, but I didn’t think the family, all cozy in what passes for a minivan on TCI, was up for a side trip.

Speaking of our ride, which truly needed pimping, the steering wheel was on the wrong side, unless you’re from Turks and Caicos, which then would make it on the right side. Apparently, this is convenient for driving on the left side, which is all terribly confusing the first few times you drive, especially when navigating traffic circles, or roundabouts as the locals like to say. Seat belts are also a bit different in that they don’t retract and lap belts are still a thing, or maybe just a thing in the twenty year old “minivan” we were driving. Who can be sure? I thought I would be able to look in someone else’s rental car to check out their seatbelt situation, since we were instructed to leave all the windows down and the car unlocked every time we parked, but no one else seemed to follow this rule, leaving us to wonder if this was really a rule, or if someone at the local car rental agency was just messing with us.

Belongers (yes, that’s really what the people of Turks and Caicos are called) don’t seem to have the same fear of pesticides that we do, or, at least, I do. When a trail of ants appeared on our counters we called the front desk in the hope that some bait would be laid down, and voila, the ants would disappear by morning. Instead, housekeeping showed up with a nondescript spray bottle, ready to fumigate the hell out of our unit. I politely declined, recounting my old days in Florida, where ants ruled the scene. It was while living there that my pediatrician posed the question, rather rudely, I might add, “Would you rather live with a few ants, or poison your child?”

After sending housekeeping away, ten minutes later, the maintenance man showed up with some traps from 1979, that even the ants avoided at all costs. I decided to embrace the ants as our friends.

Belongers, unlike Americans, don’t make a big deal about trivial things, like finding poop in the pool. When said poop was discovered, maintenance was called, came out, looked at it with disgust, and walked away, which I guess is island protocol when dealing with these kinds of inconveniences, squashing the assumption that poop in the pool is an actual problem that needs to be solved. Only after a repeated phone call to the front desk, informing them, that in fact, the poop was still in the pool, did someone begrudgingly come out and fish that sucker out. Close the pool, why bother? First the ants and now the poop? I could almost hear them thinking, Americans are soft.

This island nonchalance, not to be mistaken with rudeness, because in fact, no one was rude, or in a rush, or overly chatty, or overly concerned about anything (see above poop paragraph), left me with the impression that they thought it was I who was a bit too anal. When asking about food allergies:

Me: Does the pancake mix contain any nuts or sesame? (Just for the record, some, like Krusteaz do.)
Island Lady: No, they just mix in some eggs and milk.
Me: So, there’s a mix? Do you have a box I could read?
Island Lady: (Hesitates) No. We threw it out.
Me: But you know it doesn’t contain nuts.
Island Lady: (Shrugs. Not an I don’t know shrug, but you’re boring me kind of shrug.)
Me: Ok, we’ll stick with the oatmeal.

When renting snorkeling equipment:

Me: (sounding fussy and overprivileged by just asking the question) Do you sanitize this stuff?
Island Lady: (sounding mildly bored) No one’s every come back and told me they got sick.

Do you notice a pattern (besides the fact that my family waits for me to ask all the obvious questions)? Not only are Belongers nonchalant about everything, but no one ever answers a question. I don’t know if this is genius or subterfuge.

Regardless, I took my equipment upstairs to my room and washed it, but my children put her methods to the test, since they popped their breathing tubes in their mouths within seconds of it being handed to them. To her credit, no one’s gotten sick, yet. Maybe I do need to relax.

The airport is quite different in Turks and Caicos, too. Why bother with order, or speed for that matter? Airline paperwork already informs everyone that they need to be at the airport at least two hours before their flight. Why not make use of that time? Sitting in an air-conditioned space waiting to be called to your unnumbered gate is a waste of time, and sitting too much causes early death (hasn’t anyone been reading the news?), so the Belongers are actually doing you a favor.

The fact that some people can bypass these silly little lines of sweaty, sunburned, annoyed (and annoying) people by finding just the right valet, or feigning illness (as was the case with the lady, who I sat with on the plane, who magically perked up by the end of our flight), the rest of us sheep can try, like we did, prepared with the Benjamin’s to get out of that miserable line, but if you are unlucky enough to be followed by the really pissed off guy who raises holy hell that your attempting to pay someone off to cut the line, well, then you’re screwed. If this happens, you will spend the rest of your day and flight scowling at that red, freckled faced man, while he stares right back, ready to throw down if he so much as utters a word to you. Lines and heat are not a good combination.

Not that I think I’m above waiting in a line, but listen, I tried to check in at one of those kiosks, which along with the Belongers, don’t operate the same as the do in the United States, and it wasn’t having it. It checked my husband in, in row 22, in a seat by himself (like that’s happening). It tried to put my children in an emergency exit row until I had to fess up that the kids were too young. The computer then booted me out and would only print one boarding pass, my husband’s. That left my six year old, nine year old, and my eleven year old, who has food allergies, sitting alone on a plane where every meal and snack, from it’s chex mix to its fruit tray and M&M’s, contained nuts. I mean who the hell even knew there was such a thing as almond M&M’s? I was not happy and so, willing to shovel out some cash to get to the front of that line in attempt to get our seats changed. That is until freckles butted in.

We just made it through the check-in line before we had to make a last minute rush through security, which would have never happened had I not been obsessively stalking the freckled face man, whom, in the end, I just have to add, I beat out of the check in counter. As we stood, in yet another ridiculously long line, I watched him cut the line and head right through security. I’d call him an ass for doing what he complained about us doing, but watching him was the only we way we found out that they had opened up a separate line for our flight because it was getting ready to board. Announcements, who needs them? If you’re not in the know, and by not in the know, I mean minding your own business, then you’re out of luck.

Once on the plane, which we had to hike to in the blazing heat, I expressed my concerns to the flight attendant, as instructed. Not a Belonger himself, and thus accustomed to some kind of rules, he was the first person ready to address my problems, which were his problems too, since in the end, the counter agent still sat two of my kids in the exit row, even though they couldn’t be there. And work it out he did, for a lot of families, who were also scattered all over the plane, yet, I’m sure could have easily been sat together if there was just some sort of system. It would have been comical, watching the chaos that ensued, had I not had to live through it. In the end, though, the whole seating fiasco bought us an extra ten minutes on the runway, which was probably the only reason my luggage, tagged fifteen minutes before, made it on board. Maybe these islanders do have it all figured out.

Whew! Yes, that’s how I felt when everyone was seated, me across the aisle from my nine year old son, in the last row of the plane, my food allergic child and daughter, with a doctor next to them, my husband behind them, next to another woman and her nut allergic child. I’d say given the circumstances, it couldn’t have worked out any better. The best part, with all this other shit going down, I didn’t even have time to indulge my fear of flying.

After reading this, you might get the impression that I had a miserable trip, but nothing could be further from the truth. It was a wonderful vacation on a beautiful island. But, when we returned to the United States, and walked directly from the plane into the brand new, desolate international terminal, muzak playing softly in the background, I was tempted to fall to my knees and kiss the ground. Things are different in the United States, and boy, am I grateful.

I have never been a fan of Valentine’s Day. It’s a holiday with murky beginnings that has evolved into a huge money-maker for the greeting card business. Why the hate? Because, much like New Year’s Eve, it’s always been a big fat disappointment. A lot of hoopla that never lives up to the hype. Maybe it’s me, but I feel like Valentine’s Day is all about comparisons and everyone knows that comparison is the thief of joy.

My hate for Valentine’s Day has been a long time in the making. It started when I was a young girl and would wake up to a card, some candy, and maybe a little bear from my parents. Sure, I was thrilled to get something, until I went to school and was bombarded by my friends (okay, friend) who received beautiful jewelry from her father, which made my little white bear look pretty lame. As it turns out, long before social media existed, it was still possible to feel bad about your own life, all you needed were one or two spoiled friends who liked to brag and whose parents were a tad bit excessive. I can’t even imagine what Valentine’s Day is like now for kids. How many love themed Instagrams do you think they have to endure, before they declare themselves loveless losers doomed to a life of loneliness?

As I got older, Valentine’s Day became less about a token of love from my parents and more about tokens of “love” from the opposite sex, which I’m sure I received none of while in middle school, which is probably normal, but again, when you have a friend or two whose normal is being adored by the opposite sex, well, then your lack of Valentine’s becomes a black mark on your soul. How’s that for middle school drama?

By high school, if I didn’t have a boyfriend then I was just ready for the damn day to be over already. Yea, it’s all about love, unless you don’t have any love in your life, and then it’s 24 hours of feeling like a loser. Of course, that was also the exact time of year that student council sold candy grams as a fundraiser. For Valentine’s Day, students could buy candy and attach a love note to be delivered to their object of affection’s homeroom, while the loveless loser sat next to them embarrassed by their own empty desk. If you were lucky, a kind friend with a little extra change would send you one, as well as that secret crush, who you were well aware of but played dumb, because they were the last person on earth you wanted to go out with. Good times.

College was no better, but at least, there were parties with plenty of beer to help you forget about the godforsaken “holiday.”

You would think as I matured into a cynical young adult that Valentine’s Day would have lost its power over me, but you would be wrong. At that stage in my life, my friends were my social life, so if Valentine’s Day fell on a weekend and I was the only single lady, then my ass was sitting home, condemned to watching sappy love movies and commercials that just reinforced what I already knew. Nobody loved me.

As my boyfriend became steady and eventually turned into my husband, I still found the pressure of Valentine’s Day to be overwhelming, and in the end, disappointing. Why? Because that’s how all things that are artificial and overly hyped end. Have you ever gone out to dinner on Valentine’s Day? If you have, then you’re familiar with price fixed menus, cheesy chocolate roses, and below average food and service. Have you ever worked on Valentine’s Day? Then you have experienced the woman who receives roses from her boyfriend or husband, while your desk remains empty and you murmur vague things about what your significant other has planned for that night, even though you know there’s nothing. Who cares that you have told your husband a thousand times not to waste money on flowers that you don’t feel like becoming a slave too. Doesn’t he know how bad he’s making you look by not getting roses delivered to your place of work? Surely, he must not love you as much as Jane’s husband loves her.

Having children has just compounded the problem. Of course, I want to give my children tokens of love on Valentine’s Day, well, not really, I buy them enough, but there’s no way I’m not showing up without a gift. I can’t imagine sending them off to school without some candy packed in their lunch bag, so they don’t sit stewing all day over the fact that Johnny got candy and a new Xbox game, while they got nothing. But my children, especially my middle son, has a way of over hyping things, thus insuring his own disappointment and my personal hell. He has been discussing Valentine’s Day for three weeks, now (for the record, he is also discussing Easter), and he keeps asking me what I’m going to buy him.

What? How did we get here?

I have purposely kept Valentine’s Day simple, a red bag, some candy, a card, and a little, were talking under ten dollars, present. Yet, I can’t help feel like he is expecting more. He will be disappointed and no matter how unjustified my child is in feeling that way (but understandable, since I was once there, too, with my jewelry laden friend) it only continues to make Valentine’s Day a huge disappointment.

But there’s no escaping February 14th, the world will smile and profess their love for one another when they should have been professing their love all year long. Women and girls will hope to be wooed, while only a few wise men will figure out that Valentine’s Day really isn’t about them, but about giving the women in their life a way to brag, and the real wise men will have been showing their love all year long. Meanwhile, the rest of us will plunk down obscene amounts of money for words written by strangers printed on colorful card stock, purchase candy that is slowly killing us while making our children hyper, and buy stuffed animals that will only be tossed aside.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

]]>http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/a-personal-history-of-valentines-day-or-why-i-hate-valentines-day/feed/0A Slave to Sicknesshttp://www.adventuresincrazy.com/a-slave-to-sickness/
http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/a-slave-to-sickness/#respondFri, 16 Jan 2015 15:24:43 +0000http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/?p=6335Continue reading →]]>So, it turns out my kids can even fight about being sick.

They have also used sickness for an excuse to be even bigger slobs than they already are. It started with Little Lady, who ran a fever from Saturday night until Wednesday. The first full day of fever she had a tissue fest. She burned through three boxes, which she left in mounds beside her, without once blowing her nose. One wipe, one tissue.

The second day of her fever brought such delirium that I didn’t even care that she used up another box of tissues that she, again, emptied next to her on the couch, I just wanted her to sit up and take a sip of water.

By the third day, we were five boxes of tissues in and she was still feverish, but, at least, ready for soup with crackers, except not that many crackers made it into the soup, as I found out when I walked in on her crumbling crackers in her hand and scattering them all around her. “What? It’s fun,” she said as I scowled. I’ll blame it on the fever.

About this time, First Son decided to get into the game and started running a fever, too, because, hey, why not. Not only is he a serial nose blower who also cannot find the trash can, he had a sore throat, too, which meant he had to indulge in a constant stream of cough drops, with the only good place for the wrapper being the floor.

Second Son, feeling like he was totally being left out of the Minecraft/Halo marathon that was going on in the house and jonesing something serious for a popsicle, decided it would be a great time to also run a fever, take over the downstairs couch, and go to the nether world (it’s a Minecraft thing).

His sloppiness is similar to his siblings except that there are no tissues because he refuses to blow his nose. Instead, he graces us with his non-stop sniffing which is enough to drive anyone absolutely bat shit crazy. As for his mess, eating a bowl of popcorn? Leave it on the couch, where I’m only letting them eat because they are sick. Sick of being surrounded by couch cushions? Throw them on the floor. Cold? Wrap yourself in a blanket that drags behind you and sweeps everything over and out of the way.

Then, there’s the sloppiness that comes when multiple kids are sick. Three different medicine dosing cups for Advil, Mucinex, Tylenol and allergy medicine. Three different dosing cups for antibiotics. Counters that have been touched by fingers that have been in noses. Refrigerator handles pulled by hands that have been used to cover a cough. Toilet seats that are always gross. Humidifiers to be cleaned. Sheets to be laundered. Toothbrushes to be sanitized. Blankets to be washed. Remotes, game controllers, iPods, iPads, computer keyboards….

I’ve become a slave to my kids and their sickness.

I’ve learned something about myself, this past week. While I’ve got a few good days in me of being a selfless caretaker, my patience starts to run thin as the amount of children I need to take care of increases. A visit to the doctor’s office, five days into all this crap, where I was sitting with three sick, but not so sick that we can’t mess with each other, kids, was almost my breaking point. The doctors office that tried, for the second time this week, to keep me from coming in, pushing me to provide at home care for my children. The same office where two of my three children, and not the one with the highest fever, tested positive for strep. The same office where I was informed that my children could not return to school for the rest of this week, and where my son, I think a little too cheerfully considering the circumstances, announced that they had a long weekend because they do not have school on Monday. What? Weren’t we just off for winter break? I’ve completely lost track of time.

Now, I am at the point where if my son comes to me one more time to tell me how much his throat hurts, I might just lock myself in the bathroom with my laptop and go to my own nether world. It’s not that I can’t sympathize, because I can, but there’s nothing I can do, and not much he wants to do for himself. He’s on antibiotics, he doesn’t like the popsicles, he won’t eat soup, doesn’t like tea, won’t sip ice water, and there’s only so much motrin and Tylenol I can give him.

Here’s hoping next week is better.

]]>http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/a-slave-to-sickness/feed/0Staring at My Christmas Treehttp://www.adventuresincrazy.com/staring-at-my-christmas-tree/
http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/staring-at-my-christmas-tree/#respondFri, 09 Jan 2015 16:13:06 +0000http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/?p=6309Continue reading →]]>I am in my sitting room, if that’s what the room with no real purpose is to be called, staring at my Christmas tree, wasting my time on my computer, researching things such as botox, because, yes, I am sick of my frown lines, but of course, too chicken to do something about it.

This is how things looked two weeks, ago. Merry Christmas.

December was chaotic. In between hockey games and family obligations, there was so much to write about, so many useless points to belabor, such as ordering my new Christmas tree, debating the merits of a trampoline, menus for Christmas dinner, but I had neither the time nor will to write about any of it, thank goodness for Instagram.

A visit to my sister’s for an early Christmas celebration.

Gingerbread house making with lady’s class.

A class party for my oldest with my first attempt at a pull away cupcake cake.

Christmas came faster than I would have liked, and, then, we went away. Because I was so wired from the frantic days leading up to and including Christmas, I wanted nothing more than to be in Florida over winter break. I wanted to sit by a pool and relax. I wanted to spend the first day of the New Year in the sun.

I got my wish.

And a beautiful sunset.Then, after a long day of delays at the airport, with just me and the kids because my husband flew back Sunday, we finally made it home, Tuesday night. Now, I have returned and the aftermath awaits. My tree, which is never up after January 2nd, is still standing in all its mismatched glory, the mantle clothed in its garland and lights. The suitcases are still in the laundry room, half full, summer clothes strewn around the house, in need of being put away. There are things to be organized, tasks to do, items to be returned, and yet here I sit, on the computer, researching botox, which I may or may not ever work up the nerve to try.

I hope that writing this is the first step to shaking off the sense of inertia I am feeling, today, either that, or more coffee.

Happy New Year!

]]>http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/staring-at-my-christmas-tree/feed/0Body vs. the Brainhttp://www.adventuresincrazy.com/body-vs-the-brain/
http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/body-vs-the-brain/#respondFri, 12 Dec 2014 14:09:52 +0000http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/?p=6302Continue reading →]]>In the battle of the body vs. the brain, my middle son’s body finally won a round, yesterday. He slept until seven o’clock in the morning, which in our house is waking up late, a rare occurrence. He has been fighting sleep since he was toddler in the car, banging his head against the back of his car seat in an effort not to give into the demands of napping.

My boy is strong, in more ways than one, he has the kind of strength that can frustrate a parent. He has always been this way, since he was young and took the word no as a sign that I just wouldn’t do something for him, not that he couldn’t do it himself, an obstacle rather than a dead-end.

As frustrating (and, sometimes, worrisome) as his behaviors can be, a brief conversation with another parent, last year, reminded me of what I’ve always known in my heart. The qualities that make can make him difficult are the same qualities that also make him great.

The conversation came as I was sitting on the lacrosse field, watching my son hit an older teammate in the helmet with his lacrosse stick. I thought aloud “Why?” Especially, since I had just talked to him about this exact behavior right before we got to practice. He had been in an ongoing battle with one of his teammates, who had teased him for missing a ball. My advice, which he clearly wasn’t taking, was to ignore the kid.

A dad, I knew, was standing next to me and not wanting him to think my son was just an obnoxious punk (because half of parenting is worrying what other parents think), I explained that ever since this older kid had made fun of my son for missing a ball, my son had had it out for him, and so the battle spurred on. But, as I explained to the father, I didn’t want my son to get caught up in fighting with another boy, I just wanted him to ignore him. But my son, being who he is, couldn’t let it go.

The dad looked at me and said very matter-of-factly, “He doesn’t take shit from people. Maybe, that’s not a bad thing.”

I have carried those not very profound words with me, ever since. That day I came to realize that perception is everything, and while I don’t want my kid going to battle over every slight or taunt, I decided that I also shouldn’t be angry with him for sticking up for himself.

My perception of him will shape his image of himself. I can choose to see my son’s qualities as negative or positive. I can see his stubbornness as defiance, or something that will carry him far some day. I can see his strength as something to be conquered, or a quality that is admirable. I can see his determination as exhausting, or exhilarating. I can teach him to channel and refine his qualities and lead him on a path to greatness, or I can teach him that those same qualities make him bad and unmanageable.

I choose to see the good. My smart, funny, stubborn, strong, determined boy celebrated his ninth birthday, the other day, and I couldn’t be more proud of him.

]]>http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/body-vs-the-brain/feed/0Let’s Talk About Thanksgivinghttp://www.adventuresincrazy.com/lets-talk-about-thanksgiving/
http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/lets-talk-about-thanksgiving/#respondTue, 09 Dec 2014 13:49:19 +0000http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/?p=6286Continue reading →]]>Let’s talk about Thanksgiving, because that’s how we roll around here. While the over achievers of the world started blogging about Thanksgiving the day after Halloween or possibly sooner, I like to wait until the holiday is over, it makes my post so much more irrelevant original.

Besides, I’m not really going to talk about Thanksgiving, except to give you the broad overview and just a few pictures because my camera died while I was away, thus ruining my chance for my Story Book Land Christmas card photo op. We had a nice time celebrating at my mom’s, over indulging, making our aforementioned black Friday Story Book Land trip, which is always awesome, but this year, very, very cold, and basically, just hanging out.

The cousins always enjoy time at Grandma’s. These two played a lot of Go Fish. And on Friday, everyone was feeling ambitious and so went to the park to launch a rocket and then play a spirited game of basketball. That is everyone but me. I had other ambitions.

I’ve decided that watching House Hunters international on the couch, in your pajamas the day after Thanksgiving is the greatest motivator to planning a spring break. This year, I felt like I kept missing the mark for vacations. Our annual Hershey trip (for the birthdays) was foiled by bad weather. My grand design of a Christmas week ski vacation was thwarted by other ambitious travelers who, unbeknownst to me, booked their vacations in the summer, rendering almost every location occupied or ridiculously expensive, as in $10,000 for a room over Christmas week (I’m talking to you Stowe)! And, after spending an afternoon on the soccer sidelines, about a month ago, listening to everyone discuss their spring break plans, I was beginning to worry that I was going to be shut out of that week, too.

It is not my thing to travel on school breaks (or plan ahead, obviously). I see nothing good about booking a trip when the rest of the United States also wants to book a trip, because it means every location is crowded and over priced. But, alas, the school district does not care about what I want. Last year, after receiving three very official notices informing me that I was endanger of being fined, or worse, going to court because my son, who, by the way, is an A student, had missed too many unexcused days of school, I decided it maybe best if we plan our big vacations for the actual days my children are off school and save the two day trips (like skiing) for those five unexcused absences.

Now, I don’t really think that I would have been fined because of my son’s absences, or that my son would have been retained, either, because I was a teacher and I know how this stuff works (and I know what real truancy looks like, versus vacation truancy) but, honestly, I don’t need unnecessary hassle in my life, or days and days of make-up homework, or some over zealous specials teacher marking my son’s report card with too many unexcused absences as the reason for his S, as opposed to an O for outstanding (true story).

So, as it happened on that day after Thanksgiving, while I was binge watching HGTV, a family was relocating from their native Chicago to Turks and Caicos. I was seduced. Turks and Caicos was already on my radar after hearing people (on that same soccer field mentioned previously) rave about how Beaches Turks and Caicos is so wonderful. They spoke so highly of it, that that day, I immediately went home from the soccer game determined to book a vacation. Silly girl. The only option available to us for spring break week, was an all inclusive stay for $20,000! That did not even include airfare. Twenty thousand dollars! I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Some people don’t even make that in a year. Now, I’m sure there are cheaper options at Beaches (at least I hope), but along with the over achieving skiers, other spring breakers knew to snatch those rooms up way before October.

But HGTV reminded me that there is more than one pony show on the island, and so I feverishly went to work researching, planning, and booking. After hours of pouring over TripAdvisor reviews, checking out prices and websites, I felt elated to find a condo community, that wasn’t quite cheap, but was way more reasonable than Beaches and almost every other resort on the island, right on the beach. I booked it. Fatigued from all my research, i.e., six hours on the computer, I called it a day.

The next morning, when we returned home from my mom’s, I set out to book our flight. I never know which is better when booking vacations, especially during high travel times, booking the hotel first or the flight. In the past, I’ve usually booked the hotel. In this case, though, my method wasn’t working. Not only was I having trouble finding direct flights for my days, every flight was grossly over priced, with very limited seats. There wasn’t a single good option for the days I had booked the hotel.

That night, I went to bed depressed thinking that we had, again, missed the vacation mark, because although we had a hotel, we had no way of getting there, but, it’s amazing what a good night’s sleep can do for you. The next morning, I woke up determined to either figure it out, or find another spring break location. After five thousand more hours on the Internet, and with a lot of help from American Express travel, and a little shifting of our travel dates, we are locked and loaded and ready to go!Turks and Caicos, here we come! Well, not, yet, but you know what I mean. And for that, I am truly thankful.

]]>http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/lets-talk-about-thanksgiving/feed/0Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde Gets Ready for Schoolhttp://www.adventuresincrazy.com/dr-jekyll-and-ms-hyde-gets-ready-for-school/
http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/dr-jekyll-and-ms-hyde-gets-ready-for-school/#respondWed, 03 Dec 2014 14:18:51 +0000http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/?p=6276Continue reading →]]>My daughter seems to be suffering from a personality disorder when it comes to getting ready for school. It rears its ugly head in the morning, and, hopefully (fingers double crossed), is not an indication of what her teen years will bring.

Every morning with her is an ordeal. Gone is my easy going child, lost in a moment of temporary insanity, triggered by what to wear to school. With my boys, it’s easy, one grabs the first thing he sees in his drawers and he’s done. If he’s worn it fifty million times already, and it’s ratty, well even better. I actually have to bury clothes in drawers, especially on weeks when I’m on top of my laundry, because it doesn’t matter if it’s the same shirt he wore two days ago, or shorts, when it’s a mere forty degrees out, he looks no further than the top. If I protest or show him nicer options he insists, he won’t be cold, he doesn’t care, he’s ready. I said it was easy, I didn’t say it was always pretty. But everyday, that boy is dressed and ready, and the first one down at the bus stop. He likes to win. My older son, he’d be happy if I just laid out an outfit for him (which I don’t), as long as it’s polyester (who knew polyester would make such a comeback) and has an elastic waist, he’s good to go.

Little Lady, though, she’s a nightmare. First of all, she has no sense of urgency when it comes to school. Mornings, these days, are for sitting on the couch with her reindeer antlers on, watching tv, not getting ready for school. That’s for losers. When I finally do get her fed and upstairs, the drama only escalates. Yesterday, in an effort to get her the hell out of the house get her to school on time, in a somewhat appropriate outfit, I laid out two choices for her on her bed, right down to the socks and underwear, and told her to get dressed. Of the clothes that I picked out, the only item she decided to wear was the navy blue underwear. I know this because they were clearly visible through her too tight pink stretch pants, that were not even partially covered by her short-sleeved, waist length t-shirt. She was also barefoot.

Listen, I’m not one to get all crazy about what my daughter wears to school (see middle child), but I do have some boundaries, ill-fitting clothes, with the crotch halfway down the thigh because they don’t fit, with underwear clearly visible underneath are a deal breaker. “Oh, no,” I said, “you have to change. I can see your underwear through your pants.”

“I’m not changing!” she yelled back with the smugness of a teenager.

For goodness sakes, just two days ago, on a trip to Target, she was obsessed with wrapping her sweatshirt around her waist because she had a tiny hole in the butt of her stretch pants. Yesterday, she was ready to bear her heart patterned, navy blue underwear to the world.

She eventually changed, with much to do, stomping out of the house, declaring, rather rudely, I might add, that she only likes dresses. “Don’t you know that [moron]!”

So, today, I laid out a cute little dress on her bed. When I finally got her upstairs, she said, “I’m not wearing that! Why do I have to wear a dress?!”

Say what? I started to revisit yesterday’s conversation with her, but quickly realized the futility of trying to reason with a crazy person, and instead, threw some stretch pants, a shirt long enough to cover her butt and socks at her, and left her to get dressed.

She came down without the socks.

Of course.

“You forgot your socks,” I said.

“Then why don’t you go get them!” she countered. Holy sass!

“No,” I said, “go upstairs and put your socks on.”

“I’m not wearing socks! I HATE socks!”

Pray for me people.

She eventually got those socks on and good thing she did, because that’s how she left the house, in socks, with no time to get her sneakers on, until we were parked down at the bus stop, bus on its way. Let’s hope this phase is short-lived.

When you’re in the throes of the toddler years, especially with other children in tow, time can go so painstakingly slow that you don’t believe your children will ever grow up. But they do, my friend, they do.

I think I say this every year, but I’ll say it again, it was in giving birth to this child, that I learned what it meant to really love another human being. Boy, do I love this kid.

]]>http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/another-birthday/feed/0The Story of the Mismatched Eyebrowshttp://www.adventuresincrazy.com/the-story-of-the-mismatched-eyebrows/
http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/the-story-of-the-mismatched-eyebrows/#respondThu, 13 Nov 2014 15:21:53 +0000http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/?p=6251Continue reading →]]>Eyebrows are one of those things that you don’t notice until something goes terrible wrong. I’ve got good eyebrows, which my mom says I got from my grandma. Not as good as my daughter’s (see below), but pretty good, nonetheless. I’ve never done much to maintain my eyebrows besides the occasional waxing (maybe once or twice a year) that keeps them looking neat and groomed. Sometimes, I’ll pluck a stray hair or two, but for the most part, I don’t mess with my eyebrows, and you shouldn’t mess with yours either. Ninety-nine percent of the time eyebrow shaping is best left to the professionals, and by professionals I’m not talking about your hair stylist, manicurist, or woman in the center of the mall. Go to an esthetician, preferably someone who has been shaping eyebrows for a while. It is not expensive and not something, that I find, you have to get done consistently. Let the professional shape them and you can simply keep up the shape by plucking the stray hairs that threaten to defeat your esthetician’s handy work.

Now, let’s talk about the 1% of the time, when the “professional” is the cause of the problem. First, you may ask, if her eyebrows are so good, why even get them waxed? Well, let me tell you. By good, I don’t mean my eyebrows are perfect, but they are full and have a good shape. Waxing, cutting, and a little plucking makes them look well-groomed. A good eyebrow waxing can open up your eyes and make you look refreshed. Anytime I have ever tried to shape them myself, I have failed. You know how it goes. First you pluck one hair, then another, then another, and then, oh, no, the right one doesn’t match the left one, and there you go, again, plucking away, until all your left with is a big mess and uneven eyebrows. If you’re lucky those hairs grow back, sometimes, they don’t and then you’re screwed, condemned to an eyebrow pencil for life.

Just as I don’t mess with my eyebrows, I don’t mess with my hair color, either. I go to a pretty decent salon and pay good money to have my hair done. On staff at the salon are, usually, some pretty talented estheticians. I say, usually, because I have never had a problem, before, and I never request a single person. So, a few weeks ago, when I was getting my hair done in anticipation for a soccer social I was attending that weekend, I decided to get my eyebrows waxed. Bad move.

While my hair was processing, the esthetician waxed my eyebrows. In hindsight, there may have been some clues that things were not going to go well. First of all, the esthetician was young, which is not a huge deal, but it could mean that she’s straight out of beauty school and not very practiced at her profession. Second of all, she wasn’t that friendly, even a little defensive, which didn’t sit right with me. Estheticians, I find, on the whole, are a compassionate sort, who talk calmly while stroking your face. And finally, I was sitting up straight in a chair, not reclined on one of those comfy massage tables. Don’t ask me why this makes a difference, but somehow, it does.

However, I ignored any warning signs and went with it. Big mistake. When the esthetician finished, she handed me a mirror that I briefly glimpsed into, because I find it awkward to stare at myself while other people are watching me, and left the chair. I then went to the bathroom, where upon washing my hands, I was able to take a better look in the mirror. I was shocked to see that my eyebrows were markedly different from each other.

I headed back to the chair to get my hair finished, but was determined not to leave the salon without a fix. When I was done with my cut, I went back to the esthetician and asked her to fix them. She went on and on about how everyone has two different eyebrows, blah, blah, blah, which is true to a certain extent, but my eyebrows weren’t just a little different, one was much thicker and cock-eyed, as if half of my face looked surprised and the other eyebrow was much thinner, looking much more serious. Not a good look. She attempted to fix them, but it wasn’t working, and at that point, not wanting to end up with tiny lines for eyebrows, I agreed it was good enough.

I went home and forgot about my eyebrows because I am a busy mom of three kids. I don’t stand around looking at myself in the mirror, and most days, after I brush my teeth, I don’t look in the mirror, again, until I wash my face at night. So, when I woke up the next morning, looked in the mirror and first thing that jumped out at me were my crooked eyebrows, I knew I was in trouble. For the next twenty four hours, I obsessed over my eyebrows. I sent my mom this picture. Please ignore my cracked phone.She diplomatically responded that she was unsure if they were uneven, or if she just noticed them because I pointed them out. However, when pressed, she admitted that they were messed up. I asked my bus stop ladies loaded questions like, “Do you notice anything weird about my face?” which they knew better than to answer, but when I pointed out the eyebrows, they agreed that they were, indeed, uneven.

I consulted my friend Google, and had a good laugh. Google bad eye brow job and I promise you, you will not be disappointed. As it turns out, this is a pretty common thing, especially when left up to the non-professionals and misguided individuals who think it is a good idea to shave them off completely. In the end, as tempted as I was to try and fix them myself, after all, I am the same person who thought it would be a good idea to cut her own hair, in an effort of remarkable restraint, I decided to wait and schedule and appointment at a salon that I used to go to, that have long time estheticians on staff, not ladies fresh out of beauty school.

Esthetician number two spent a lot of time trying to undo the unevenness. She did the best she could without murdering the good eyebrow, enough so, that I could live with it, or at least, stop obsessing over it.

Thankfully, the thinner eyebrow is starting to fill out more and thicker more arched eyebrow isn’t noticeably hanging out above my sunglasses while the other one is nowhere in sight.

Gone, now, are the days of a random waxing with hair color, from now on I’m sticking with not only the professional, but the professional with a lot of experience.

]]>http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/the-story-of-the-mismatched-eyebrows/feed/0Helloween aka Halloweenhttp://www.adventuresincrazy.com/helloween-aka-halloween/
http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/helloween-aka-halloween/#respondWed, 05 Nov 2014 19:58:45 +0000http://www.adventuresincrazy.com/?p=6239Continue reading →]]>No, that’s not a typo, that’s how I feel about Halloween, or as I like to call it Helloween. I know some people really get into the whole Halloween thing, but me, I’m not a fan. Halloween has always been just ok for me. Sure, I liked getting candy when I was young, but I was never one to go all out in the dress up department. Now that I have kids, I flat out dislike it.

Everything about Halloween bothers me, expensive costumes, the half day the kids get in our school district, the rush to get something in their stomachs before the door bell starts ringing, the mass confusion leading up to the time that my town doesn’t set (so really trick or treat could start at eight in the morning if one was ambitious), the six pounds of candy my middle son collects, then gorges on for the next twenty-four hours sending him into a sleepless sugar crazed induced state. Add to that, that Halloween fell on a Friday this year, which I initially thought was a good thing, until it rained all day Saturday and I was stuck inside with over sugared exhausted children, and Halloween stinks!

Maybe I need to get over it. Maybe I need to enjoy the moment. Or, maybe it’s just not for me and I shouldn’t feel bad about it. I think I’ll go with the last option.

However, my kids seem to like Halloween just fine. He takes after me, at least in the costume department. I think he could skip the dressing up part altogether, this is his third year in the same costume, but the candy, now that is a whole other story.

As for Little Lady, she’s all in, and she likes the scary costumes, too. I wouldn’t let her wear face make-up for the school parade, just a little bit of powder in her hair and the dark nails, which she made a point of showing in each picture.

But for trick-or-treating, she was all about the make-up. She kind of scares me.And the big guy, he surprised me this year by deviating from his usual army man costume (I told you were not that original in the dressing up department), instead choosing a crazy melted face hazmat suit. He wanted to write Ebola victim on his chest in fake blood. I nixed that idea. It was an interesting choice for him considering when I asked him to move his costume into his room, he replied rather indignantly, I don’t want to wake up looking at that thing!But, all is well that ends well, and I think I’m finally recovered. The oldest and youngest are just about out of candy, but somehow my middle guy still has a whole pillow case full, that is now hidden away. We split up this year, so I do know he got more candy, I just don’t know if he got that much more than his siblings. In keeping with his costume, I have a feeling he went on some covert missions, in the wee hours of the morning, which enhanced the size of his bag. His brother and sister wouldn’t have known the difference, unlike him, whose candy is present and accounted for, sir.